Darkfall

At Wellton School, when classes on the third floor recessed for lunch, Penny Dawson wasn't hungry. She didn't even bother to go to her newly assigned locker and get her lunchbox. She stayed at her desk and kept her head down on her folded arms, eyes closed, pretending to nap. A sour, icy ball lay lead-heavy in the pit of her stomach. She was sick — not with any virus, but with fear.

She hadn't told anyone about the silver-eyed goblins in the basement. No one would believe she'd really seen them. And, for sure, no one would believe the goblins were eventually going to attempt to kill her.

But she knew what was coming. She didn't know why it was happening to her, of all people. She didn't know exactly how it would happen or when. She didn't know where the goblins came from. She didn't know if she had a chance of escaping them; maybe there was no way out. But she did know what they intended to do to her. Oh, yes.

It wasn't merely her own fate that worried her. She was scared for Davey, too. If the goblins wanted her, they might also want him.

She felt responsible for Davey, especially since their mother had died. After all, she was his big sister. A big sister had an obligation to watch over a little brother and protect him, even if he could be a pain in the neck sometimes.

Right now, Davey was down on the second floor with his classmates and teachers. For the time being, at least, he was safe. The goblins surely wouldn't show themselves when a lot of people were around; they seemed to be very secretive creatures.

But what about later? What would happen when school was out and it was time to go home?

She didn't see how she could protect herself or Davey.

Head down on her arms, eyes closed, pretending to nap, she said a silent prayer. But she didn't think it would do any good.

III

In the hotel lobby, Jack and Rebecca stopped at the public phones. He tried to call Nayva Rooney. Because of the task force assignment, he wouldn't be able to pick up the kids after school, as planned, and he hoped Nayva would be free to meet them and keep them at her place for a while. She didn't answer her phone, and he thought perhaps she was still at his apartment, cleaning, so he tried his own number, too, but he didn't have any luck.

Reluctantly, he called Faye Jamison, his sister-in-law, Linda's only sister. Faye had loved Linda almost as much as Jack himself had loved her. For that reason he had considerable affection for Faye — although she wasn't always an easy person to like. She was convinced that no one else's life could be well-run without the benefit of her advice. She meant well. Her unsolicited counsel was based on a genuine concern for others, and she delivered her advice in a gentle, motherly voice even if the target of her kibitzing was twice her age. But she was nonetheless irritating for all of her good intentions and there were times when her soft voice seemed, to Jack, as piercing as a police siren.

Like now, on the telephone, after he asked if she would pick up the kids at school this afternoon, she said, “Of course, Jack, I'll be glad to, but if they expect you to be there and then you don't show, they're going to be disappointed, and if this sort of thing happens too often, they're going to feel worse than just disappointed; they're going to feel abandoned.”

“Faye—”

“Psychologists say that when children have already lost one parent, they need—”

“Faye, I'm sorry, but I don't really have time right now to listen to what the psychologists say. I—”

“But you should make time for just that sort of thing, dear.”

He sighed. “Perhaps I should.”

“Every modern parent ought to be well-versed in child psychology.”

Jack glanced at Rebecca, who was waiting impatiently by the phones. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged as Faye rattled on:

“You're an old-fashioned, seat-of-the-pants parent, dear. You think you can handle everything with love and cookies. Now, of course, love and cookies are a part of it, but there's a whole lot more to the job than—”

“Faye, listen, nine times out of ten, I am there when I tell the kids I will be. But sometimes it isn't possible. This job doesn't have the most regular hours. A homicide detective can't walk away in the middle of pursuing a hot lead just because it's the end of his shift. Besides, there's a crisis here. A big one. Now, will you pick up the kids for me?”

“Of course, dear,” she said, sounding slightly hurt.

“I appreciate it, Faye.”

“It's nothing.”

“I'm sorry if I sounded… abrupt.”

“You didn't at all. Don't worry about it. Will Davey and Penny be staying for dinner?”

“If it's all right with you—”

“Of course it is. We love having them here, Jack. You know that. And will you be eating with us?”

“I'm not sure I'll be free by then.”

“Don't miss too many dinners with them, dear.”

“I don't plan to.”

“Dinnertime is an important ritual, an opportunity for the family to share the events of the day.”

“I know.”

“Children need that period of tranquility, of togetherness, at the end of each day.”

“I know. I'll try my best to make it. I hardly ever miss.”

“Will they be sleeping over?”

“I'm sure I won't be that late. Listen, thanks a lot, Faye. I don't know what I'd do without you and Keith to lean on now and then; really, I don't. But I've got to run now. See you later.”

Before Faye could respond with more advice, Jack hung up, feeling both guilty and relieved.

A fierce and bitter wind was stored up in the west. It poured through the cold gray city in an unrelenting flood, harrying the snow before it.

Outside the hotel, Rebecca and Jack turned up their coat collars and tucked their chins down and cautiously negotiated the slippery, snow-skinned pavement.

Just as they reached their car, a stranger stepped up to them. He was tall, dark-complexioned, well- dressed. “Lieutenant Chandler? Lieutenant Dawson? My boss wants to talk to you.”

“Who's your boss?” Rebecca asked.

Instead of answering, the man pointed to a black Mercedes limousine that was parked farther along the hotel driveway. He started toward it, clearly expecting them to follow without further question.

After a brief hesitation, they actually did follow him, and when they reached the limousine, the heavily tinted rear window slid down. Jack instantly recognized the passenger, and he saw that Rebecca also knew who the man was: Don Gennaro Carramazza, patriarch of the most powerful mafia family in New York.

The tall man got in the front seat with the chauffeur, and Carramazza, alone in the back, opened his door and motioned for Jack and Rebecca to join him.

“What do you want?” Rebecca asked, making no move to get into the car.

“A little conversation,” Carramazza said, with just the vaguest trace of a Sicilian accent. He had a surprisingly cultured voice.

“So talk,” she said.

“Not like this. It's too cold,” Carramazza said. Snow blew past him, into the car. “Let's be comfortable.”

“I am comfortable,” she said.

“Well, I'm not,” Carramazza said. He frowned. “Listen, I have some extremely valuable information for you. I chose to deliver it myself. Me. Doesn't that tell you how important whisks? But I'm not going to talk on the street, in public, for Christ's sake.”

Jack said, “Get in, Rebecca.”